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  Trystan leans forward and sets the glass down. “You can’t live like that. The wasteland of regret pulls you in and never lets you leave. If you want her, tell her.”

  I stare at my hands and shake my head. “I can’t. He hurt her. She’ll never want me like that, and I won't force the issue.” I lean back and laugh bitterly. “I’m in love with a woman I can’t be with—I can’t show her how much I love her. I can’t even touch her.”

  “Do you need to? I mean, think about it. There are other things, right?” I glance at him out the corner of my eye, not following. “There’s more to life than fucking, Jon. Meet her where she’s at and figure out if that’s enough.”

  The suggestion swims in the grief that fills my mind. Would it be enough? I could just hold her, kiss her, and take what she has to offer when she has it to give. I know that should be enough, but I’m not sure what that looks like. Then my thoughts stumble when I realize that there’s one thing I need from her. The rest can fade away, I can live without it, but this—I can’t be with her and not touch her. I have to be able to wrap my arms around her and hold her.

  Trystan chortles quietly. I glance up at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “Only that the self-professing male slut found something more important than sex.”

  CHAPTER 15

  CASSIE

  I wait in the dressing room until everyone else is long gone. I wipe the makeup off my face and reapply with a lighter hand. I want the ugly red mark on my cheek gone. I want him gone.

  I hate what I’ve become. I can’t find my spine when that man is around. I cower, imagining what he’ll do to me. The cat claws were the worst. Most women with scars like mine get them during childbirth. I did not. I managed to heal. He did it twice more after that. Blood, sex, and semen are three things Mark likes to do to me.

  He was my first. I thought it would be slow and loving, passion and pleasure mixing within us. I had high hopes, none of which turned out to be true. From day one, he hurt. I don’t know why, it just did. He got increasingly impatient until sex turned to rape. I was too stupid to know what to do, too scared to ask for help. He was a good man having a bad day. I’d convince myself that it wouldn’t happen again.

  But it did.

  He latched onto the pain and perverted it. He’d tie me down and then jam things inside me—sex toys, bottles, glass—until I passed out. I’d wake up covered in cum and dried blood. Sometimes, toward the end, he’d leave me tied in the basement with no water, nothing to eat for days. I’d scream, but no one ever heard me. When we first moved into that house, he told all the neighbors how amorous I was. ‘Insatiable,’ he’d say. I thought it was a strange pride at the time, but it wasn’t. It gave the neighbors a reason to look the other way when he locked me outside with no clothes, leaving me to freeze on the back porch.

  ‘Sex games,’ he’d tell them, ‘of course we enjoyed playing and teasing each other.’ The way the men looked at me made me afraid to go outside. They thought I’d do anything with anyone. It was so far from where I started, and I felt so incredibly forsaken that I ran away.

  The first time I did it wrong. I took things with me and didn’t go far enough. He found me, beat me, dragged me home, and we resumed the daily terror that put a grin on his face. He had an iron mask fitted to my head and left me wearing it while he was at work. He used everything from hot wax, to metal claws, to electrified barbs on me. It was a dungeon made for fucking, and he wouldn’t let me out.

  It never felt good. I never wanted any of it. The thought of going back there terrifies me day and night.

  I'm lost in the possible horrors awaiting me and don’t see Jon standing in the doorway. His hip rests against the frame, arms folded across his muscular chest. Those blue eyes are dark as the night sky and filled with worry.

  He clears his throat and steps into the room. “Are you ready?”

  I nod and don’t trust myself to talk. What would I say to him? I can’t tell him all that. I don’t want to relive it. I want it to go away.

  He sighs deeply and presses his lips together before finding a seat down the bench. He probably hates me right now. Tonight could have gone a lot worse, and I’m sure he knows it. He rubs his hands on his jeans and glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  I can’t hide my shock. “For what?”

  “For not keeping you safe. For letting that asshole inside. For not stopping him fast enough. For not realizing the extent of what he did to you.” His eyes are wide, earnest. He blinks, looks away, and runs his hand over his head and down his neck. “I almost lost you tonight, Cassie, and I was too pissed off about stupid shit.”

  I look away. I shouldn’t have gone nuts on him. He’s been so sweet to me, so patient. “It’s not stupid to want to do her.” I sneer without meaning to when I think about Gretchen.

  “Cassie—”

  “No, I mean it. I’m sure you’re lonely. I would have flipped out less if it had been someone else. Gretchen isn’t my favorite person.”

  Jon loved me that way once, but now he’s distant. I feel more like a sister than anything else. It makes me sick inside because I don’t feel that way about him. Even conflicted and batshit crazy, I know I want to be with him. I just don’t know how. One second it seems like I can handle it and the next it’s all I can do to escape.

  Jon’s voice is deep, soft. “I didn’t want to, but I need certain things, Cass, things I can’t ask you for.”

  Oh, God. It feels like he’s going to rip my heart out. I can’t take it tonight. I can’t hear him say those words. I need to make him stall, but there’s only one thing that comes to mind. Can I do it? Will he let me? “I understand. You don’t have to ask, Jon.”

  His face scrunches together in confusion. “I don’t?”

  “No.” I’m off the bench and pad to the spot where he sits. I place my hands on his knees and sit between them, facing him. My hands are shaking slightly thinking about it, feeling torn. Before I can change my mind, I reach for the waist of his jeans and undo the button.

  “Cass? What are you doing?” He watches me but doesn’t stop me.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I put my fingers on the zipper and pull. His snug black boxers hold his package close to his body. I trace the tip of my finger over the bulge on top of the fabric. Jon closes his eyes, tips back his head, and moans. His breathing seems louder, less controlled. I reach for the elastic band on his shorts to free him, while considering putting him in my mouth. I can do it. I have before. I don’t like it, but he needs it. I’m willing to do it for him, regardless.

  That’s when he grabs my hand and stops me. “Cassie, don’t.” His voice is so soft, so incredibly careful.

  I try to pull my hands back, but he holds on. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” The way he looks at me destroys me. It’s like he has no interest in me that way, no matter what the bulge in his pants proclaims.

  “Don’t say anything. Let me do it.” I chance looking up at him and instantly wish I hadn’t.

  He lifts both my hands to his lips and kisses my fingertips. “I can’t. Not tonight.” He drops my hands, stands, and kisses the top of my head. As he walks away, he zips up. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  CHAPTER 16

  JON

  I keep dreaming about that night, with Cassie on her knees at my feet, her small body between my legs and that sinful mouth offering to suck me off. I groan and roll over. I’ve been sleeping on her floor for the past few weeks. Cassie comes to work smiling, does her job—which I can’t stand—then goes home with Beth. I follow shortly after.

  I can’t get her to move to my apartment or quit. I don’t want to pressure her because of her relationship with the asshole, but I’m going to lose it soon. I need her. I need to feel her naked body pressed against mine. I want to feel the heat from her inner thighs as she straddles my face and I slide my tongue deep inside her. I want to drink her in, and hold h
er hips down as she rocks against my face.

  I need her. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s not about fucking or getting off. This is about me and Cassie and our two bodies tangled together into one.

  I rub my eyes with the back of my hand and pad out of the tiny room. Beth sleeps in the other closet of a bedroom, leaving the combined living room and kitchen area open at night. There’s no TV, just an old couch that smells like cats and mildew. There’s a print on the wall, stuck there with tape. It’s a riverbank in Paris, the yellow lights glowing softly along the Seine. I’ve been there. This image is a romanticized version of it, the trees dripping with rich autumn golds.

  “That painting makes her so happy. You’d think she won the lotto the day she brought it home.” Beth is there, standing behind me in thick oversized socks that go halfway up her calves and a long t-shirt that drowns her. It must have been white at one point, but now it’s dingy gray like her socks. The cast on her wrist is covered in glittering pink Duct Tape. She would never have bought it—Beth doesn’t spend a dime unless it’s absolutely vital—so I bought her four rolls. I think she’s taped everything. Her door is pink, her chair is pink, and the old coffee table they found on the side of the highway is also covered with pink tape. I’ve never seen someone so grateful for something in my life.

  My last name affords me everything I want, whenever I want it. I've never had to save and always have more than I could use. Fuck, I have more than I could spend in my lifetime. The concept of being excited about tape eludes me. I wish I could find that much happiness in something so simple.

  “She never talks about it.” I tip my head toward the painting and follow her to the cockeyed kitchenette table.

  Beth grabs the milk and two cups, pouring one for me without asking. “To you.”

  “Why not?”

  “She figures you’ve been there and doesn’t want to sound like a peasant.” She grins and hands me the glass.

  “Do I sound like that?”

  “I don’t think so," she says, shaking her head. "You’ve been sleeping on the floor for weeks without trying to get in that girl’s pants. You know what that means.” She puts the glass to her lips and chugs the rest of the white liquid.

  “No clue.”

  Slamming the glass on the table, she smiles and sighs like milk is liquid sex. “You’re either gay, hard up—since you're a Ferro, I ruled that option out—or the L-bomb is floating around in your head.”

  “I already told her I love her. She wasn’t interested.”

  Beth’s face scrunches making her mousy features pointier. “You said what?”

  I tap my fingers on the side of the glass, feeling the cold condensation under my fingertips. “I professed my undying love, and she said she loved me, too.”

  “And you’re sleeping on the floor?”

  “Correct.”

  She studies me for a moment, the corner of her mouth pulling up into a crooked grin. “God! You mean it, don’t you?”

  I don’t reply.

  “She’s been through a lot of shit. She doesn’t talk about it, but I know she’s not dead inside.” Beth pulls her feet up onto the chair and wraps her arms around her ankles. She watches me, her dark eyes studying my face, then dropping to my hands on the glass. “So, you’re just going to sleep on the floor forever?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “No, and I’m not going to either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the way we met, okay. I was all about fucking, and she wasn’t interested. I charmed her every day and tried to get into her pants every night. It was a game. I don’t want her to think I’m playing around. I’m not. I’m worried I lost her, that Mark showed up and, although Cassie stayed with me, he stole what remained of her." I glance up at Beth. "If you tell her any of this, I’ll deny it.”

  She frowns and exhales slowly. Her gaze cuts to the side and then at my glass of milk. “Fine, I won’t say anything. Are you going to drink that?” I push the glass toward her. Beth lifts it and guzzles.

  “I’ve never seen someone like milk that much who wasn’t, you know, five.”

  She leans forward and presses her palms to the table. “Ooh! You know what’s even better? Chocolate milk! I’m getting me some of that tomorrow.”

  “I wish I had your zeal.”

  “No one matches my passion for dairy products.”

  The corner of my mouth lifts slightly. “Or tape.”

  She lifts a finger, pauses, and nods. “Glitter tape. If it were invisible tape, it wouldn’t matter so much. You'd have more gusto about something you truly want but have to earn.”

  “You didn’t earn the tape.”

  She smiles at me softly. “Yeah, but I know what it's worth and that it was something I’d never have. You made that possible, Jonny boy.” She ruffles my hair as she walks back to her bedroom. She stops in the doorway and looks back at me. “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “That’s the first time anyone said that.”

  “It won’t be the last.”

  CHAPTER 17

  JON

  The next morning Beth heads out to run, and I’m alone with Cassie. I spent the night on the couch, screwing around on Reddit. I started out laughing at posts about crazy horse girls, then moved to something that hits a little closer to home—dating someone who has been sexually abused. From what I read, it sounds like I’m handling things right. It also sounds like I’m fighting for something that might not be possible. At some point, people become too wounded. They wither and die. What’s left is a shell of the person who used to be there going through the motions of life. They slip into a place where no one can hurt them again, but that place prevents them from feeling anything at all. Numbness swallows them whole, and it sounds like a lonely life.

  The guys who love women like that sound like martyrs. They give up all physical contact, sleeping in different beds, even different rooms. They live next to her never touching her. Some of their stories get better. Over time, some couples build healthy physical relationships. I find comfort in those endings. But there’s something worse. Depression can take over and walk her off a bridge.

  It kills me, but I keep reading. It's the same story over and over again. An asshole mistreats a woman for so long she stops fighting. Even if she wants to break free of him, he won't let her go. She accepts her fate. His abuse never ends, until one day she has an opportunity to leave. She takes it, manages to find real love, but she can't forget the abuse, can't believe she didn't deserve it. Suicide pops up over and over again. In the end, the good guy, the guy fighting daily to prove his love earns nothing but gut-wrenching loss.

  All his sacrifice is pointless.

  Nothing can heal her.

  I don’t know how far gone Cassie is. I don’t know what he did to her, if every aspect of physical contact is ruined, or if it’s only sex. I think I could live without it, pretend it isn't important. Dozens of other men said the same thing online. They gave up everything, and a lucky few got the girl back. There are always demons in tow, but everyone has baggage.

  My past also lingers in the shadows, tainting my present.

  I glance at the picture on the wall. If she bought that, there’s got to be some hope floating around inside of her. That picture is Cassie’s glitter tape, her milk. She pads out every morning and sits on the couch, staring at it while she drinks her coffee. It’s a small thing, but I’ll take any flicker of hope that I can get.

  I’m not the knight in shining armor. I’m not the hero who saves the girl. I’m the asshole who rips bodices and ravages wanton women. Sometimes I think fate played a cruel trick on me, putting us together. We don’t fit and never have. I thrive on sex, and she doesn’t want anything to do with it.

  Cassie yawns and walks out of the bedroom behind me. She wakes at the same time every day, no matter what. She clings to that schedule of hers like a life raft. In many ways, I guess it is. I feel lik
e a dick for not seeing it sooner, how hard she clings to her life, trying to pull herself back up over the cliff. When you're hanging on by your fingernails, it’s not easy.

  She’s wearing a pajama set I gave her. I was going nuts sleeping near her in those threadbare shirts with nothing between me and her panties. This set is pink stripes with a pink patch on the boob. Her hair is tied into a ponytail on top of her head. She looks perfectly sleepy, still peaceful. Nightmares didn’t wake her today.

  Previously, she tried to hide them—and I let her. Then Mark stopped by the club and provided a face to the monsters again. It's easier to imagine what she sees while she's dreaming. I finally admitted I have dreams, too. I wasn’t lying. I don’t have to make shit up around her. I've kept that part of my life hidden from her, and mine was a different experience, but years later the ripples look the same. Nightmares, sweats, aversions to certain things…

  I hold a mug of black coffee up over my head so she can take it as she passes. She removes it from my hand, and I drop my arm as she sits next to me on the couch. Her bare knee is close enough to touch, but I don’t. She has to come to me—and it can’t be with a can-I-give-you-head request. It’s like starting over with a twitchy virgin, which is pretty much how she was when I met her. If we start over, it’ll be at the beginning.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is smooth, thick from slumber. She has a serene look on her face as she stares at the picture. It’s too small, too far away, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. As she sips her coffee, her eyes cut to the side, and she blinks at me. Sheepishly, she lowers the cup and points at the picture. “TV is pretty good this morning.”